"I'm proud of my horses, too," said Alaire.
"You have reason to be." With his eyes alight Dave examined the
fine points of both animals. He ran a caressing hand over them,
and they recognized in him a friend.
"These beauties were raised on Kentucky blue grass. Brother and
sister, aren't they?"
"Yes. Montrose and Montrosa are their names. The horse is mine,
the mare is yours." Seeing that Dave did not comprehend the full
import of her words, she added: "Yours to keep, I mean. You must
make another Bessie Belle out of her."
"MINE? Oh--ma'am'" Law turned his eyes from Alaire to the mare,
then back again. "You're too kind. I can't take her."
"You must."
Dave made as if to say something, but was too deeply embarrassed.
Unable to tear himself away from the mare's side, he continued to
stroke her shining coat while she turned an intelligent face to
him, showing a solitary white star in the center of her forehead.
"See! She is nearly the same color as Bessie Belle."
"Yes'm! I--I want her, ma'am; I'm just sick from wanting her, but-
-won't you let me buy her?"
"Oh, I wouldn't sell her." Then, as Dave continued to yearn over
the animal, like a small boy tempted beyond his strength, Alaire
laughed.
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